


acting out all their fears

by crownlessliestheking



Series: Feanorian Week 2021 [4]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Arguments, Family Politics, First Age, Gen, Post-Nirnaeth Arnoediad, sons of feanor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 00:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30131529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/crownlessliestheking
Summary: It is not until days after the battle, when the dead lie in heaps under the Earth, when the scant survivors have dispersed, that Caranthir manages to see any of his brothers.It is not until days after the battle, when he sees Celegorm and Curufin, but not the twins, not Maedhros nor Maglor, that he learns the extent of what had been done.
Relationships: Caranthir | Morifinwë & Celegorm | Turcafinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë & Curufin | Curufinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë/Haleth of the Haladin (Past)
Series: Feanorian Week 2021 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2212536
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	acting out all their fears

**Author's Note:**

> I read something absolutely lovely a couple weeks ago, about how Caranthir lets his brothers (specifically Maedhros) blame him for the Nirnaeth (for Mae, losing Fingon), because he knows they need someone to turn the anger towards so they can move on. This is sort of my take on it, but not quite. The fic itself is by Dialux but the direct inspo is a post with a deleted scene from it, found [here](https://dialux.tumblr.com/post/643902065467326464/caranthir-and-maedhros-post-nirnaeth-i-need-more). (Thanks to Mockingjay468 for finding this!)
> 
> Also important to note- I am not even remotely sure of how I feel about this Caranthir or if it is OOC. But, as always, we're playing it a bit fast and loose with canon in terms of both characterization, history, and geography.

_[Day 4] Caranthir: Childhood, **Betrayal** , Lordship, Dwarves & **Humans** , Marriage, Appearance_

* * *

It is not until days after the battle, when the dead lie in heaps under the Earth, when the scant survivors have dispersed, that Caranthir manages to see any of his brothers.

It is not until days after the battle, when he sees Celegorm and Curufin, but not the twins, not Maedhros nor Maglor, that he learns the extent of what had been done.

No, not what had been done, but of the faithlessness of the Edain. Of _his_ men.

He curls his hands into tight fists; there is still blood crusted on them, it flakes off to land on the ground beneath him.  He is furious, blindingly so, in a way that only his brothers can draw out of him.

And of his brothers, only Curvo, because he of all of them is the one whose words hurt the most. So they are engineered, to sting, to burrow into the mind and linger, bitter and twisting. When Caranthir is in a charitable mood, he allows that it is because Curufin of them all is the most committed to rescuing the Silmarils- and this at any cost. But he is rarely in a charitable mood, and this, on the heels of such death and tragedy- no. He cannot stand for it. He will not stand for it.

“Men are faithless and fickle, it was a mistake to trust them; cowards, they are, poisoned by Morgoth already,” Curufin says, damningly.

Curufin’s voice is a terrible thing to behold; Caranthir thinks, wry, that had he the power of their elder brother, he would have brought the roof down upon them. But looking at him is worse. Not for naught had Ammë called him Atarinkë. In this, he looks like nothing so much as their father, his eyes ablaze with what he’d no doubt consider righteous indignation.

But he is not their father, no matter how he wishes. No, that dubious honor may fall to Maedhros, whose unhappy lot in life is to spend it corralling his brothers. Maedhros, who has been conspicuously absent, and Maglor with him- it is his duty to corral Maedhros at times, on the rare occasion when it is needed. And after the battle, the one they have taken to calling the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, it falls to Caranthir.

Or, it ought to. But this, this is an insult he cannot bear, for it is not one aimed at him, but at one of the few he considers it a privilege to have met. No, more than that.

“No,” Caranthir says, flat. He cannot let his anger rule him here, but he still feels the heat simmer in his face. “No, brother, you are wrong. You would have us flinching from shadows, from potential allies, out of fear of Morgoth. Maedhros knows-,”

“Maedhros sits insensate in his grief,” Curufin spits. “What does he know, tell me? Does he know that it was _your_ men who betrayed us? That his husband is dead because those who swore to you proved to be untrue? Caranthir, generous, open-handed, they call you, yet what use is an open hand if it only proves to grasp at poison snakes?”

“It is no wonder you are no longer a great lord,” Caranthir replies in turn, his mouth curling. “And it is less a wonder that you were shunned from Nargothrond. Yet we still trusted you, when you have proven yourself to be equally faithless- and you, of course, Tyelkormo, will remember this well, as you were right there with him. At least you have the sense to hold your tongue rather than stoop to the depths of hypocrisy.”

Curufin’s face purples in rage; Caranthir resists the urge to point out that their father, who his brother idolizes so still- and he was hardly a saint, this is true, though at the very least Caranthir understands still his dislike for Arafinw ë ’s brood-, had never looked quite so ridiculous when he was furious. Their mother no doubt would have brought it up, when things were souring even in Valinor.

“You-,” Curufin starts, yet again, and that fury bubbles up within him. 

“ _No_ ,” he states, simply. “No, I will not stand here and hear _you_ of all people slander them, when it was only a few that proved treacherous. I will not stand here, when I have just finished burying our dead, while you sit in your tent as a lord and do nothing to comfort our grieving brother, while you do _nothing_ but fling accusations my way. You wish to call me a traitor too, _Curufinw_ _ë_? Truly, you must be more like Atar than I recall, if you are so willing to turn against your own brothers, but at least he had the courage to say it outright, rather than spitting useless and impotent in his rage.”

“I see that you do not comfort our brother either,” Curufin says coldly. As always, he knows where strike. “And what would he say, if he saw you defending them so?”

This, Caranthir cannot answer, and so he doesn’t.

(There will be choices to be made later, he knows. And if he must, he will bear the brunt of Maedhros’ hatred, and he will have to remind himself that this is not his brother, that this is what grief, what Morgoth has made of him. Even now, Caranthir steels himself for it.)

“I am sure he would have much to say to me,” he retorts. “And I will answer in kind when I must. But hear me, Curufin. This will not break him, and this will not break us.”

“It already has,” Curufin answers, a bitter twist to his mouth. “And you are a fool to not see it. Where is there to go from here, tell me? How are we to get the Silmarils, when Angband’s strength has proven superior to our own? This was the best of us, do not forget it. Traitorous Men, Naugrim, and what few of the Eldar that had courage.”

“And yet Orodreth son of Angrod is not here,” Caranthir says, soft. He too knows how to wound. “And yet Finrod Felagund is not here.”

Curufin’s face twists in anguish; even Celegorm flinches. And finally, he takes it upon himself to speak.

“Moryo-,” he begins. He is outraged, that much is plain to see, and though _he_ has not yet insulted Caranthir, he has never had a thought that Curufin has not had first.

“Do not _Moryo_ me,” Caranthir hisses out. “You would defend him, of course- you are just as complicit as he was. If we had but the strength of Nargothrond behind us-,”

“If we had the strength of Nargothrond, of _ten_ Nargothronds, of Doriath itself, it would not matter,” Celegorm says. “It would not matter, because we would still be betrayed.”

_By your men_ , goes unsaid between them. Curufin smiles, and it is ghastly.

“It is good of you,” Celegorm continues, halting. “To continue to have faith. But now? Now we know that there are none that we can trust that aren’t ourselves. Do you not see that?”

The glint in Curufin’s eyes tells him that there are none he would trust  _including_ them; what Caranthir had said to him will not be so easily forgiven. Yet Curvo is not the only one of them who hoards grudges, though perhaps he is the cruellest about it.

“I do not see it,” Caranthir tells him. “I do not care if you think me a fool, Curvo- frankly, I do not see why I should care what my younger brother thinks of me at all, and as I said, I will not be judged so by a hypocrite. But I do not see it. If you wish to have faith in the hearts of Men, look to the house of Bëor.” Look to Beren Erchamion, who grasped a Silmaril that you did not, look to Beren, who you two let slip through your fingers. “Look,” Caranthir says slowly, “to the Haladin, who died for us, who I have _buried_. They deserve your honor, not your contempt, brothers.”

“The house of Bëor is gone,” Curufin tells him. And then the knife: “And so is she.”

(Later, Caranthir will not be able to put his rage into words, nor will he be able to explain himself. He will regret it, much later, because he will know that this is when the cracks between him and his brothers widened, when the bond between them truly splintered beyond forgiveness, beyond healing. He will regret it, even when they die together steps away from the throne of Doriath.)

(But now-)

(Now is different.)

It is not reflex, nor instinct, but something far darker that drives him. Caranthir’s hands ache, there is dirt crusted under his nails, dried blood on them, he is filthy from head to toe, and he is exhausted, and he-

He is  _furious_ .

At the betrayal- and yes, they were his men, he cannot deny this, they swore fealty to him foremost, perhaps Curufin is right-, at their loss, at the senseless loss of life, so many flames cut short, and most of all, at his brother, for daring to speak so to him, when he knows, when he  _knows-_

His sword rings out as he draws it, the point pressing into the hollow of Curufin’s throat. There is nothing but flat, endless anger in his voice as he speaks.

“She is gone,” he agrees. Soft, deadly. “And I will not have you dishonor her memory so. I will not. Do you have yet more poison to speak, Curvo? If so, I will gladly hear it, though I warrant that Celegorm will not be fast enough to stay my hand.”

There is a long beat of silence; the air is tense enough to be cut with a knife.

And through it all, the acute knowledge that this is not what he needs to do, that this is not what Maedhros would have him do, nor even what Maglor would have him do. This is not the diplomat that he himself is, either; this is not the same elf that had offered lands and marriage to the best of the Edain, who had knelt before her and was raised with the knowledge that he could do better- be better.

What would she think, seeing him now?

His mouth floods with bile, bitter, and his stomach heaves.

He drops his sword with a clatter, and it echoes through the air.

Curufin is pale, his breathing shallow, but his eyes _burn;_ Celegorm is quick to step in front of him, ever-protective.

His hands shake, every breath stings the back of his throat. The inside of his nose is still coated with the stench of dirt and death and rot, and he has brought it here with him.

“I-,” he begins, and then stops. It is too late, to salvage what he can of this. He knows that, even now. “I ought to go. I should not have-,”

“No,” Curufin says, the syllable pronounced with all the weight of Mandos himself behind it. “You should not have. Yet you did, you lifted your sword to my throat- mine, your _brother_ , your blood-, and whatever words have passed between us, that is far worse than any wrong you would lay at my door, in the case of Finrod. We are all of us kinslayers, brother. Do not forget it, but take care that _kin_ comes no closer than cousins.”

A threat, a warning, all to the guilt that roils in his stomach.

The blood on his hands is old, older than the Edain that fell in their defense, older than the strife brewing in their family- strife that he has added to.

There is no forgiveness to be had here, Caranthir knows.

“You ought to heed your own advice, brother,” he says instead. His voice does not shake, though his hands do. “You know what she was- _is-_ to me. I offer you the courtesy of not mentioning Tintissë. You may return the courtesy, lest I think all the time spent with your wilder half has eroded your manners entirely.”

Celegorm opens his mouth to speak, no doubt to head off whatever scathing remark Curufin will make.

“Worry not,” Caranthir tells him, brief. Weary. “I am over-tired; we will have to speak again on the morrow.”

“When tempers are cooler,” Celegorm agrees, after looking at him for a long moment. Of course he does not so look at Curufin; he was not made for diplomacy among the Eldar, and this effort would have endeared Caranthir in years past, but now he is only filled with contempt and resignation. It is not how he wishes to regard his brother, and yet. “We will speak then.”

He inclines his head, not trusting himself to speak.

Caranthir ignores their whispers as he strides away- away, to a tent of some sort that will serve to sleep in, to wash and wash his hands as if that will bring them back, those that she loved. As if it will bring _any_ of their dead back.

It will not, no matter how he scrubs, until his hands are red and raw.

It will not.


End file.
